The Last Adventure
by Tofania
Summary: John Watson is nearly seventy years old. Sherlock Holmes has been supposedly dead for over four decades. Is it still too late for a final adventure?


**The Last Adventure**

There are things I need to say.

I have decided to write and publish this account, not out of nostalgia or boredom, but because I feel that I need to. I understand that there are many out there who used to be fans of my blog, many who followed the adventures of Sherlock Holmes and I, many who are curious about the fateful events that transpired many years ago.

It has been a long, long time since his death. I am nearly seventy years old now, and as I look back I realize that my time spent with him were undoubtedly the best years of my life. But I have moved on. I have gotten married. I have become widowed. I have had children. These children are now married as well. Time doesn't wait. Life simply continues to go on, no matter how hard you try to live in the past. And I do not want to live in the past anymore. This will be the last time I will write about my adventures with Sherlock Holmes, and the last time I will ever look back to my wonderful, painful, and lost past.

He died in the January of 2012. I suppose I always knew he would die early, but I never wanted to admit it to myself. There was absolutely no way I could imagine that sharp mind, that enthusiasm, that energetic quality about him deteriorating with age. And I suppose he couldn't either. I can still remember looking up at the rooftop of St. Bart's, seeing his tall, black outline against the sun. I remember hearing his voice on my phone, my shock, my denial. He said that he was a fraud. It didn't register in my mind. There was something in me that knew, really knew, that the only lie Sherlock Holmes ever told me was in that last phone call: _I'm a fake._ And I still don't know why he did it.

My name was his last word. I think about that now, and I wonder what it would be like if he was alive. Would he be retired now? Or would he still solve cases, but instead of running around London he'd be confined to a chair? Who knows. Some things never change.

I had many regrets after his death. He was a mysterious man, and he never told me any details of his childhood or his family. But I remember, oddly, my worst regret was not being able to see his face in that last phone call. I could only hear his voice and see his silhouette. I could hear him crying on the other end. I had never seen him cry. I still haven't seen him cry.

Those few days after his death were awful. But it did not become unbearable until a few years later, when I lost all hope. When I finally realized that he would never come back. I remember holding my revolver in my hand, thinking about what it would be like to just end it all. All the pain. To finally be able to say to Sherlock all the things I should have said to him. But in the end, I put my revolver away. He wouldn't have wanted me to do this. That was the only thing that kept me going. And it worked. Things got better. Life went on.

Until a few weeks ago.

I usually don't receive very much mail; just bills and advertisements, mostly. So you can imagine my surprise when I reached into my mailbox and found two thick envelopes, each one full of papers.

The first envelope I opened was an ominous black, with a strange red crest printed on it. I opened it and found papers, neatly printed and stacked together. I squinted at the first page:

_The Final Problem_, by Jim Moriarty.

My heart nearly stopped when I read it. This was a name that I thought I would never hear for the rest of my days.

I swallowed and continued to read it. And I read it and read it and read it, until the very last page, the very last word: _suicide_.

They were his plans.

Every single detail of his plan to destroy Sherlock was written here, by his own hand. All of it was there, every step and every method, from his use of Kitty Riley to his alias Richard Brook and finally, to Sherlock's suicide. And I knew that he had not been the one to send it to me. I knew that these papers had never meant to see the light of day. I knew that someone must have stolen it. And that someone had sent it to me.

I opened the other envelope with shaking hands. This one was white, with no distinguishing marks except for the stamp and my address. Inside was a thick stack of papers, but not as thick as the other one. This one was titled:

_The Reichenbach Fall_, by Sherlock Holmes.

I stared at it, unable to comprehend. There was a strange feeling in my heart. I could feel hope returning. That dreadful hope that never amounted to anything, and it was coming back as I read his name one more time. I turned the page.

These were _his _plans. His counterattack on Moriarty's final problem. This was his account of how he figured out the final problem, and his plans on destroying Moriarty and saving himself.

And then it hit me that he was not dead.

I did not believe it at first. I did not let myself believe it. I did not let my hopes soar any higher than they already were.

Not until I read his description of the way he faked his death.

Not until I realized that if there was anyone in the world who could fake a convincing death, it would be Sherlock Holmes.

And for a moment, I actually felt happy. For the first time since his suicide, there was no pain. Everything was simply bliss.

But then I realized something. Something that made the pain come back and the happiness leave, something that made my hopes retreat quietly into a dark corner of my heart.

The doorbell rang.

I did not hesitate. I slowly stood up, and grabbing my cane, I walked to the door and opened it.

He was old now. Very old, and although he was still tall, he had begun to stoop a little. His skin was wrinkled, and his dark hair had grayed. His eyes were still the same though. A piercing blue-green.

He stood there. With the saddest expression on his face. He had realized it too, then. I was not the only one.

"Hello," he said quietly.

I nodded in response.

He looked at me, his eyes darting around my face, as if trying to figure something out.

"So I don't have to tell you, then?" he said finally.

I shook my head.

He did not have to tell me that his return was too late. He did not have to tell me that no matter what we say now, no matter what we do, nothing will be able to take back all those lost years. He did not have to tell me that I'm not going to forgive him. He did not have to tell me that things will never, ever be the same again.

He did not have to tell me that the best years of my life are over.

"I'm sorry," I said. He nodded.

I looked at him for a second. How I had dreamed of this moment. Dreamed of embracing him, welcoming him back, talking about all the things that had happened while he was gone. But I was older now. Wiser. I knew what I needed to do.

We shook hands, both of us knowing the end of our story.

"It was nice seeing you, Sherlock," I said.

"Yes," he whispered. "It was nice seeing you, too."

He turned to leave, and for one second he hesitated. And in that one second I saw a man who wished things could be different. But that second passed, and he continued walking away. I closed the door.

Something inside me knew I would never see him again. And I'm not sure how I felt about that.

That was the last time I had ever talked to Sherlock Holmes.

And who knows, maybe one day things could be the same again. Perhaps there is a heaven, and when we have both finished living our lives, we could sit around in our flat on Baker Street again, watching crap telly and shooting up the wall and waiting for cases from Lestrade.

But not now.

He was too late. I was too late.

The only adventure I could have with Sherlock now would be telling him goodbye.

My last adventure.


End file.
